


Masquerade

by Haluwasa2



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, Multi, Pining, background anora/soris, mostly pining, past male surana/cullen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haluwasa2/pseuds/Haluwasa2
Summary: Alistair reflects on love lost...And writes a letter that he hopes will soften the heart of both Michai Surana and his lover Zevran Arainai.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai/Male Surana
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eissa/gifts).



Autumn rain poured, chilly and sopping wet, against the streets of Denerim. Even now, Alistair could still smell the rain as it was over Redcliffe in his childhood, the dank stench of mud and cows and grass all mixing together with beautiful crisp rainwater. Rain could not permeate the reek of Denerim. It only aggravated it. 

He remembered the rainstorms of the Fifth Blight well, too. Fresh in his mind were the memories of hiding in tents, watching Shale sit outside, unbothered by its presence, and the one time they had had to book it back to camp as an ocean was seemingly dropped on their heads. Part of him felt guilty for missing the days of the Fifth Blight. They were horrible times, really, but he couldn’t help but miss the motley band of adventurers that Michai Surana had picked up along the way. And it was Michai doing the picking. Often, Alistair felt like he was along for the ride as Michai told anyone who was deemed interesting to join their merry band. 

Including Zevran. 

At one time, that had been a source of contention between them. Now, Alistair couldn’t imagine never meeting Zevran. He wished he could say that he couldn’t imagine living without him, without either of them, but he had been for some time. It was easy to go down the rabbit hole the rain brought, especially when it brought on memories of the Blight. 

He had met Michai Surana-- tanned skinned, two swirling cheek tattoos, and thick dark hair-- at Ostagar. Alistair wondered if he had had feelings for the future Warden-Commander even then. Michai was charming-- openly flirtatious with a coy smirk. It was hard not to like him. It wasn’t until after Ostagar that Alistair would really get to know him. Michai was cold, but not unkind. Much of that charming personality was there to ease people into enjoying him before the layers peeled to reveal cool glances and his constantly scheming mind. There didn’t seem to be any situation he couldn’t get them out of. 

And he pressed Alistair. Flirting, sidelong glances, innuendos all came his way. Michai had even once pressed his tongue to the side of his cheek, leaving Alistair genuinely confused while Morrigan and Leliana nearly died in splutters of laughter. It was Leliana who had finally explained it to him. Even now Alistair remembered how heated his face had become. But he still couldn’t help but like Michai. The other was funny, eager… breath-taking. Watching him cast spells, winds and ice and fire whipping around him as he smiled viciously was almost otherworldly. But there were smaller moments as well. His thin face lit up by the campfire as he laughed, his gray eyes sparkling, the fire reflecting in them just right so that they looked like the moon, had held Alistair’s gaze more than once.

Maybe he had had those feelings from the start. 

Then Zevran had come, bright blond hair, Antivan accent, assassination attempt and all. Any feelings for Zevran had not been there at first. Alistair didn’t know him from Andraste and trusted him as far as any of them could throw Sten. But, like Michai, Zevran was charming. It didn’t take long for him to snatch up the title of ‘friend’. The three of them got along and worked well together. Warrior, Rogue, and Mage all together and any fourth could easily slip into place while the others guarded camp or patrolled elsewhere. 

Wynne had been the biggest aid to him. Talking Alistair through feelings he didn’t think he could have during one of the scariest times of his life. And one that he hated to remember fondly, but always did. It was heartbreak and fear and the blossoming of something new in his chest-- tasting blood and honey on his tongue as he pushed his way through those times. And how quickly it all had turned to ashes in his mouth. 

First, he had spent time with Michai. Being the only two Wardens was already a bonding experience. Flirting or otherwise they had been friends first. Nightmares were weary on a prideful little elf. Walls broke down much easier then, but there had been real trust there. And Alistair learned so much-- good and bad. At first, to learn that beneath Michai’s charm was a calculating mind that cared little for what was right and wrong, had been frightening. But, the more Michai unraveled, the more Alistair fell. Logic and pride were Michai’s vice, ones that he had admitted to Alistair himself. 

At his core, Michai had a strong sense of love that Alistair couldn’t help but be sucked in by. Falling in love with Michai was like drowning in quicksand. Despite Michai being torn from his mother, watching mages be dragged away by templars, having his friend turn to blood magic, and every darkspawn since then, it was a miracle that it had survived. Yet, it remained. Hopelessly romantic Michai who had tricked his best friend into being their first kisses. That was how he liked to see himself in those dark nights, murmuring as much to Alistair in exhaustion. Nights where he admitted that no matter what power he was handed, he wouldn’t keep it forever. All he wanted was to live a long life with someone he loved. 

It had broken Alistair’s heart to explain The Calling. Michai had been despondent those few days after, but he seemed to recover, privately. There had been something dangerous in his eyes then. It had made Alistair’s heart flip in his chest. 

Zevran was also an ever present nuisance. Flirting not just with Michai, but Alistair himself. At first, it felt like it was going to drive him mad. He would be talking to Michai one moment, nearly making progress on solidifying his feelings, only for Zevran to waltz in with dashing smiles and roguish wit. Yet, he knew there was something beneath all that bluster. Each time the rogue spoke, he had a twinkle in his eye that he was more than just a pretty face. Alistair had gotten a few things to slip, just by talking, more than once. A heart beat beneath an assassin’s mask. And Alistair couldn’t help but enjoy the Zevran who he knew cared. 

Then, despite any contest Zevran had presented, he had finally pressed back. Alistair was uncertain of himself, but Wynne had told him that what he was feeling could never be wrong. Damn what the Chantry said, even she learned new things about herself everyday. He had found a rose-- beautiful, if dying-- and was going to give it to Michai. In his mind, it would be wonderful. Michai would take it and put it behind his ear while he reached for Alistair’s hand to thread their fingers together. Maybe they would kiss. 

They didn’t kiss. 

When Alistair had pressed, Michai had seemed touched at first. There had even been a mirthful ‘I knew it’ behind his lips, barely contained. When Alistair reached for him, though, something had flashed in those beautiful eyes. Even now, Alistair didn’t know what it was. Michai’s dark eyebrows had raised and he had looked at Alistair like he was suddenly someone else. Not a stranger, but something much worse. 

Michai had pressed the rose back into Alistair’s hand and had murmured, “I can’t, Alistair. Not- not again. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me.” It was rare to hear Michai’s voice waver and crack as though he were going to cry. He had sped away from Alistair then, muttering something about ‘bloody blond shem templars’. When his heart broke, he was more surprised by the fact that he could feel it in his chest more than he could in his mind. It didn’t so much upset him as it did draw everything to his lovelorn heart, leaving his mind blank and void-like. 

It was days before he realized why Michai had refused him. Love often seemed like a game to Michai. He and Zevran could spend  _ hours _ spewing innuendo and flirtations at each other and never bat an eye or grow flustered. Michai had even tried his hand at Sten. It was as successful as Morrigan’s attempts, but Michai didn’t seem to mind. But Alistair had heard that ever cool voice waver before. 

In Kinloch Hold, in front of that templar, Michai had nearly come undone. There had been tears in his voice as the other admitted to an infatuation with  _ him _ that the demons tempted him with. It was obvious he meant Michai. And then the templar-- and Alistair wished he could forget that his name was Cullen, wished that he could remove the tear-stained breaking of Michai’s voice as he called out to him-- had started to go on about sins, demons, and evil mages. To count Michai among them as well. 

_ Bloody blond shem templars… _

It didn’t matter to Michai that Alistair had never taken his vows. His fighting, his hair, and maybe just the idea of him reminded Michai of too much of what once was. Not that Alistair knew much beyond that there had been something; he had never pried. He never even had the courage to ask after he was refused. 

Instead, the second round of ashes entered his mouth. As they drew nearer to the end of it all, it seemed that perhaps spending hours each day trading flirtations could cause you to fall in love. Michai leaned on Zevran at the campfire and Alistair tried not to see it. When they snuck into Zevran’s tent together, he pretended it wasn’t happening. Though, when he saw them kiss in broad daylight, he could no longer ignore the truth. Wynne did her best to console him. 

The only thing that he was surprised to find was that he missed  _ Zevran _ flirting with  _ him _ . Michai was expected, but Zevran’s slowed and then stopped by the time they were heading towards Denerim the final time. What kind of mess had his heart become? It would take him years to figure it out himself. With a Blight going on and their travels ever nearing their end, he didn’t have much time to do much self-reflection. 

But he did have time to get angry. It would be something he would always regret. Right before the Landsmeet, standing on the edges of the city, Michai had stopped them. It had been strange. Usually, Michai would walk and talk. He didn’t have time to waste. Instead, he stopped and looked toward Zevran, who nodded back at him. 

“I have something I need to tell you all,” he had said. Then, he went for his wrist. For a while, Michai had worn leather braces, tied with a simple cord that had leather gloves which he had cut off at the fingers himself. It was a fashion choice, Alistair had falsely assumed. A strange fingerless glove was good for casting, but not really great with cold. That was what Michai had told him. 

Instead, he had untied the bracers and lifted his arm. It was marked with scars up and down, some fresh and others healed over. A cold shock had sprinted its way through Alistair. _No, no, no, no, no._ _Not that._

Wynne had been the one to break the silence, whispering, “Oh, Michai, what have you done?” 

“I’m practicing blood magic,” he had said, as if Wynne had not spoken, “I’m-- I’m good at it and I don’t want to hide it from you all anymore. It  _ will _ help us defeat the archdemon, I know it.”

There was talk, asking why, how, what could have possessed him to do this. Was he possessed? Alistair had lurched inside himself. It wasn’t that he was overly religious. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Michai couldn’t handle it. But the memories of Redcliffe-- of Connor, possessed-- would always remain fresh in his mind.    
  
Alistair had seethed, louder than everyone, “Since  _ when _ ?” 

Michai had pursed his lips before sighing, “Redcliffe. Second time.” 

“From your friend? Who learned it from books?” asked Alistair, knowing he was wrong. He had wanted false hope that Michai had not done the unthinkable. 

He’d shaken his head, “The Desire Demon. I  _ outsmarted _ her before I did anything. I’m not careless.” 

“You could have fooled me,” Alistair had sneered, gravely serious as he stared down his fellow Warden. Michai had looked as though Alistair had slapped him. Eyes wide and jaw shaking: that was the face that haunted Alistair’s dreams when the darkspawn nightmares didn’t. 

At the time, it had felt like a punishment. It  _ was _ a punishment, but it hadn’t been his. No, Michai was crafty. There was no doubt that he had outsmarted that demon. But he also knew how to hurt people. Not in little ways with names or words, but in big ways. No, becoming a blood mage had never been a punishment for Alistair, a simple fact that he had known from the moment it came to light, but his own was coming. He could have apologized before the Landsmeet, but he hadn’t wanted to. So, Michai, carrying himself with his head high as if he had been born to nobility and not to a Dalish runaway, announced that Alistair would  _ marry _ Anora to ensure no ill will between both sides of the Landsmeet. It had been an amazing political move that had made the present parties attending the Landsmeet happy and Alistair miserable. 

So, when Michai had come to him saying Morrigan had found a way to defeat the archdemon without anyone having to die, Alistair assumed his punishment would continue. Except it didn’t. Michai had completed the ritual with Zevran’s permission. He had even slain the archdemon himself and lived to tell the tale. 

Alistair knew he had wanted to apologize not long after his head stopped swimming from the insanity of it all, but he never found the right time. There was no time to fix that trust he had severed and beg Michai for answers as to why he thought giving his hand to Anora was deemed fitting for that. A chance to have that talk never came. He had to learn to be King and fast. And Michai had to go off to become Warden-Commander and fast. And Zevran had to go off to put himself in charge of the Crows and fast. Everything felt like a whipping whirlwind. 

Marching into Vigil’s Keep felt like it finally could quell the storm. Perhaps if they had just gotten a second alone with Michai, they would have talked. But Michai couldn’t be damned to give him the time of day. Instead, Alistair decided that once Michai had finished up at the Keep, he could invite him to Denerim. It was the best solution he could think of . But that had never happened. 

For all intents and purposes, Michai Surana had disappeared off the face of Thedas. 

Many thought he was dead. Alistair didn’t. Michai wasn’t going to go quietly into the night until his hair was gray. Why couldn’t he have seen that then? After all those nights where Michai had spoken so softly to him, Alistair cursed himself for not trusting him faster. He knew that the other wasn’t the type to say no to power-- even now Alistair could hear his voice, smiling as he said, “I have shems I want to look down on, after all.” And yet the power of blood magic didn’t corrupt him as it had other mages, didn’t change that Michai simply wanted love and a long happy life. Maybe that was why he had disappeared. 

He was probably out looking for a way to prevent The Calling. It was what Alistair would be doing if he was still a Grey Warden. He listened to the rain pound down outside and he thought all of this as he often did, years after he had heard from either Zevran or Michai. A sharp tapping finally stirred him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Anora, tapping her nails against her desk in their study, watching him. She hummed, “There you are. You’re thinking about them again.” 

Friendship with Anora had come to him in trial by fire. When she had seen him floundering in those early months of trying to be king, she could have easily had him disposed of or taken sole control. Instead, she had chosen to help him. She had taught him what she knew-- from when and where to use the royal ‘We’ all the way to how the machinations of the bannon worked. Anora had been a teacher and Alistair her student. According to her, he was a surprisingly fast learner. He’d never be a traditional king. He was far too kind hearted and noble for that, according to her. Cailan had had that ‘vice’ as well, but he was blind to what he did not know. The bannon liked to keep their kings blind to the plight of those lesser. With Alistair, they simply couldn’t. 

He sighed, gifting her a weary look, “Was it obvious?” 

“Considering I just spent several minutes calling your name to ask you about the masquerade? Yes.”    
  
Alistair groaned at her, “I thought you were handling the costume party  _ thing _ .” He hated calling it a masquerade. It always sounded so Orlesian. 

Anora laughed, “I’m making the menu. And considering that it’s for our anniversary, I figured you’d want to be involved in at least that.”

“Ah, yes, our  _ anniversary _ ,” he mused, “With you hiding your lover and me. Pining.” 

The arrangement had been amenable. Alistair had no issue with Anora taking a lover-- she had found a man she had loved very much. She knew how to hide him from the eyes of nosy arls, who would be aghast that the Queen had not only taken a lover, but a common-born elf at that. Apparently, she had met him before, but Alistair had seen him the first time when they had been touring the alienage in order to rebuild it and make it more hospitable. He had known Alistair, not from Anora or his coronation, but from Michai and Zevran. Apparently, he had met the two with Sten and Wynne during one of their escapades in Denerim when Alistair had been left behind with the others. 

Anora had met him later when he was acting as a representative on one of her visits. They were good together and, since Alistair couldn’t have kids anyway, there was something undeniably just, if not a little be funny, about Ferelden having an elf-blooded king while no one realized. What a fun secret he would get to keep. 

She rolled her eyes, “It gives the people a day of rest. And you always end up enjoying yourself.”    
  
“You mean I always end up just a little bit tipsy and embarrassing Arl Teagan.” 

“Well, that is the same thing.” Anora couldn’t hide her little smile, giving her ever so slight dimples. The first time he had seen those dimples, Alistair spent several minutes marveling that she was actually human and not some stone-being, created by her father to be the perfect ruler. 

She sighed, the dimples being swallowed up again, and told him, “If your pining keeps you from making menus now, you best send them a letter so you can apologize.”

Alistair laughed. What a ridiculous notion… He shook his head, “And how would you like me to get one to the missing Hero of Ferelden and the Head of the Crows.” 

“The Crows,” replied Anora, without missing a beat, and raising her eyebrows, “Whether for good or ill, there’s probably at least one watching us right now.” 

A chill ran through Alistair, making his toes curl. The idea of being watched, should have frightened him, but he had long ago learned that it was simply another part of royal life. Instead, some dark idea that the Crow watching him was  _ Zevran _ just out of reach, just close enough that they could touch, excited him. His heart sped up in his chest a little, but he managed to clear his throat to keep level headed. Zevran wasn’t watching him, but Anora did bring up a good point. If he left a letter on his desk or in a windowsill, a Crow spy would be likely to pick it up if they were watching him. 

The rain kept up at a steady pace, despite the fact that the room seemed a little brighter. Maybe it was the flash of lighting as thunder rolled across the sky. Alistair moved from the reading chair he was sitting on to his own desk, getting the menu from Anora as he stood. His desk sat across from one of the windows. He had moved it there himself because he enjoyed staring out of them to watch the outside world go by. Daydreams were his constant companions. Under the menu, he placed several pieces of blank parchment. Another beautiful streak of lightning crossed the sky as he lifted his quill and Alistair swore he saw the outline of someone just across the window, standing silent. By the time the next crack of lightning hit, the figure was gone, if it had ever been there at all. 

Writing letters was harder than it looked. Alistair wasn’t exactly a talented wordsmith and what he thought would be a simple letter ended up keeping him awake all night. The rain remained throughout the night and nearly put him to sleep more than once. Eventually, he left the letter half finished to defeatedly crawl into bed. 

By the next morning, he had morning routines to go through. Checking in on this, that, and the other thing that he was supposed to do as royalty. Maker’s breath, it was tiresome. Give him an horde of Darkspawn and a good sword any day over the never ending stream of parchment and people. Each one was looking toward him, expectantly. Some of them looked at him and wanted him to succeed while others wanted him to fail. Expectant eyes were on him almost constantly. 

When he finally got a small reprieve, he nearly bolted to his study. If it wasn’t for the fact that Anora used this room just as much as he did, he might have bolted it shut just to get away from it all. Days like these involved memories of watching cool-headed Michai handle the nobility with ease and care. Maybe Michai should have been king. His silver tongue probably could have charmed everyone into Ferelden’s first elven king. The thought brought a smirk to Alistair’s lips as he chuckled. 

Writing took most of his reprieve from the royal limelight away, but the sleep and distance from the haunting piece of parchment had done Alistair some good. The letter wasn’t perfect, filled with Alistair’s usual sense of humor as he dreaded dire seriousness. If he was lucky, Michai would read it in a good mood. He hoped that most of the days Michai had were good now. Before folding it up for the seal, Alistair read over the letter one last time.    
  
_ Zevran, If you open this before Michai, stop reading and put it away I mean it!  _

_ Michai,  _

_ I’d address it dear, but I don’t want you to scoff and throw this away. Though, I imagine seeing the seal may mean you never will open this. I can’t say I blame you for that. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you used this for kindling. If that’s the case, I hope it burns well for you. If not and you are reading this, then I imagine you have already realized what this letter was for me. You’ve always been several steps ahead of this foolhardy shem.  _

_ There aren’t words to describe how much I’d like to apologize. Well, there probably are, but we both know I don’t know them. Anora’s tried, but she can’t always get me to learn kingly stuff. Especially in letters. I’m still rubbish at these. But, yes, I’d like to apologize, in person if possible.  _

_ Maybe then I could tell you how I feel.  _

_ Those feelings haven’t changed. Maybe that’s why I can’t help but want to apologize. I know that that is a hopeless feeling to keep, but I can’t shake it. I’m not going to come between you and Zevran. In fact, there’s a part of me who can’t help but think back and realize that had he ever asked-- well, no, I would have said no, but I would have been stupid to.  _

_ All that being said, I miss you both. And I’d like to see you. At the very least, I’d like to be friends again. Is it horrible to miss the Blight sometimes? I suppose the good thing about it was how it brought us all together. There must be a million people in this castle, but I’ve never felt more alone. What a sad sack. And you made me king. Thank the Maker for Anora (a sentence I’d never thought I’d write!).  _

_ I hope you read this and hope even more to see you soon.  _

_ Forever Yours,  _

_ Alistair  _

The ‘Forever Yours’ had hit the page before Alistair could stop himself. Part of him wanted to scratch it out, but the letter already looked sloppy enough seeing as the message to Zevran had been squeezed in at the top margin midway through writing the letter. Not to mention, he couldn’t bring himself to do it anyway. It wasn’t untrue at any rate. 

So, Alistair folded the letter, put on the wax seal, and left it on the windowsill in front of his desk. Sunshine had returned and the wind had calmed to a near still breeze. Still, Alistair placed a small Mabari-shaped paperweight on it so it wouldn’t blow away. As he left to get back to his neverending duties, he spared it one final look before leaving. 

When he returned that night, he found the letter gone. A single crow feather was treacherously still, pinned in place beneath the paperweight. 

By the day of the masquerade, Alistair figured Michai had burned the letter. Aside from the feather that assured him that a Crow had taken it, there had been no correspondence, no hints, not even a rejection. Each day his heart sank further and further down into his chest. As he was being suited for the ball, he had truly hit rock bottom. 

He hated being dressed as it was-- it seemed unnecessary and he was usually left to his own devices, but for certain occasions he was ordered into allowing help from the servants, usually for complex pieces. There were few things more frustrating than having someone make sure every intricate button was clasped tight and every tassel where it should be so that Alistair looked like a painting rather than a person. When Anora had had the idea for his costume, he had not expected that it would have so many tiny details. That was what he got for letting her pick the tailor. 

Still, he had to admit, she knew what he liked. The costume itself resembled Warden armor more than an actual costume-- a blue suit, with swirling silver detailing. Each fastener glimmered in the candlelight. Alistair had almost chuckled, imagining that it looked like Orlesian Grey Warden armor-- all fancy with no protection.

And it was supposed to be very Grey Warden for the ball. Apparently, they were selling everyone on the Warden King aspect of his life again. Perched atop the clutter of parchment and quills on his desk was a silver mask, ready to be tied in place once he was ready. The two-tones of gray made up metallic feathers and beak that turned down into a point. To anyone with eyes, it was clearly a griffin. Alistair, despite his best efforts, couldn’t help but like it. Bittersweet and beautiful, it echoed of the life he once had. 

Anora probably had gotten to know him a little too well. 

He tied the mask himself, as the servant left. They paid all who worked in the castle, but Alistair always set a little extra aside when one came to help him dress. None of them seemed insulted by the gesture, so Alistair kept it up. It wasn’t like he was ever going to use all the royal money anyway. They were already rebuilding the alienage-- a project that was nearing completion-- and there was still more money and more to do. They would be reaching out to the Dalish next and then looking into expanding Kinloch. It made him wonder just how much Orlesian royalty had. Where could they put it all? 

The mask tightened over his face. Two blue eyes blinked out from beneath metallic silver. Time to face the music. Small talk and dancing were going to be his eternal punishment, he knew it. 

Anora was awaiting him at the top of the stairs. Her gown was golden and red, and very Fereldan. Despite the masquerade, she had chosen a loose, thin dress with very subtle detailing. It would be more suited for Fereldan dances than Orelsian games. On her face, she had a mask of golden scales with two curving horns, scarlett swirls traced the eyes and around the snout of her mask.    
  
“A dragon?” he asked. 

“A subtle match to your own costume,” she replied. Of course it was. She had always been very good at that. Both of them were a unified front, if very different. He sighed gently with a soft smile and offered her his arm. 

He leaned in to whisper to her, “And what is Soris wearing?” 

She chuckled, “He’s a dragon as well. A red one.”

“You sly minx.” That caused Anora to laugh, louder than she intended, catching the attention of a few of the servants finishing up the preparations. They were to be off the rest of the night, Anora and Alistair having hired people who were willing to work the event in favor of giving their staff the night off. It sent him into a small fit of laughter as well. Even despite everything, he had to appreciate moments like these. 

Especially as the masquerade began and his waltz with boredom started with it. He shared the opening dance with Anora, but afterwards they moved separately about the party, occasionally meeting up while they entertained and pacified guests. Alistair kept going back to the little table of food that had been laid out to satisfy appetites before the dinner banquet. If he could make it to dinner, he might just survive yet another party. 

Soft string music with undertones of a loud brass drifted around him, which was the part of the party he liked the most. Still it all faded away in an instant. As he stared out into the sea of people, he saw a flash of black feathers. He blinked, staggering back until he bumped the table, causing it to shake slightly. If it was there, then it was gone now, lost from his sight. Maybe he had been imagining it out of hopeless desire. Only Zevran would wear a crow mask when he was  _ the _ finest Antivan Crow, especially what he had done to them… But it could have been someone unaware of the implications or even a raven mask. Something that would break Alistair’s heart just a little into the night, nothing more or less. Instead of dwelling on it, he attempted to let the night continue. Cloudless and star filled, he often considered breaking for a balcony to get some air. 

Duty had to come first. Alistair did his minimal mingling which would pacify Arl Teagan and the other banns, but there were claws dug into his shoulder. Every so often he would see that flash of black and feathers. Then he would bump shoulders with a dancer or look toward the scent of new food being brought out and the image had vanished without a trace. Part of him thought he was hallucinating whatever figure was stalking him in the crow mask. His heart tightened, twisting in on itself throughout the early part of the dance to the banquet. Each time he thought he saw the feathers it got worse. 

Perhaps, he needed to go to bed. The scents of oversweet food, women’s perfume, and the sounds of melodies and talking that grew ever louder was weighing a deep toll on his mind. Then, he would see a flash of black feathers or a cheek with a swirling tattoo and the cycle would begin again. The latter he was sure he had hallucinated out of hope. It was squeezing his stomach in unnatural ways, flipping it over like a sick dog. He found Anora and explained that he decided he was going to at least step away for a while, maybe take that break on a balcony. His head was spinning as if he was caught in a great storm. Damn the Blight, this was getting to be a hard fight in his own right if the shattering in his chest was anything to go by. At least things couldn't get much worse. 

As usual, he spoke too soon. 

Instead of a flash, he saw this mask in full. It made him jump, reaching to find a weapon to draw until he realized it was a mask. Before him, a ways off, there was a gray mask, made of a distressed plaster. The cracks in it were not natural, showing an array of different iridescent purples leaking through. As the cracks traveled up the mask, the cracks grew shaky and numerous until they overtook the top in swirling, almost inflamed bright iris hues. From either side of the mask jutted dark gray horns. 

A desire demon. 

The kind of demon that Michai had made his pact with.

And the wearer was slipping away into the crowd of the party. Alistair hesitated a moment before taking off after the other. The Desire Demon was small and lithe-- and getting Alistair’s hopes up as he slipped between figures. People began thinning out wherever he was heading. Maybe he was just running because he had accidentally caught the attention of the king…

But Alistair had soaked the other man in when he first saw him. Whoever was in the Desire Demon costume had looked directly at him, eyes shadowed by his mask, but his mouth and chin had been showing. Tanned skin and mischievous smile had graced Alistair’s staring eyes, mesmerized for those brief moments. Had Alistair even noticed his heart stopped? 

As he followed, the pathway was becoming clearer-- they were heading to one of the balconies on the other side of the castle. Most of the partygoers were having dances and conversations down below, but the other man was sneaking around corners, letting Alistair see just enough of him to keep following. Blood was pumping hot within him, loud enough to drum in his ears as he tried to keep up. 

Maker, he hoped he wasn’t making this all up in his head while the other thought the King had decided to chase him. 

His arm rested against the frame of the archway to the balcony as he leaned over to take a deep breath. It took one hell of a run to wind him. When he finally looked up, he saw the man who had led him there. A lock of braided black hair dipped from beneath the mask, having fallen in his little escape. He didn’t seem to be trying to get away. In fact, he seemed outright lax as he leaned against the railing. His arms were crossed as they swam in a silken purple outfit that matched the mask. For a moment, he looked Alistair up and down, seemingly analyzing him.

“Chasing Desire Demons, your Majesty? What would the queen think?” Michai’s voice with its mischievous lilt tumbled out of the man’s mouth. 

Alistair pressed the side of his hand to his lips, eyes squinting. He worried that when he opened them again, Michai would be gone. It almost frightened him to open them back up again. Still, he had to. Slowly, he peeled open his eyes. Michai was still there, resting against the rail, left side of his mouth curling up into a wry smile. His thick black hair glimmered in the moonlight. The braid was new, but Alistair rather liked it. 

After a moment, he managed to sputter out, “It  _ is _ you.”

“Oh, do say something funny. I feel as if I’ve murdered someone.” 

Alistair laughed a little, “If you had, I’m certain you’d find a few dead shems a very good joke.” 

“Now that is rude and unfounded,” said Michai, his voice going falsely high as he faked being appalled at the accusation. Alistair went to reply, but it was not his voice that spoke.

“Besides,” hummed a velvety voice that was both behind and above him. Before Alistair even had a chance to look up, he felt a gush of wind before thin legs wrapped around his torso. Two arms, muscular but trim and covered in a black satin clasped tightly around his neck. Were he any other royal, this position would be a death sentence. Instead, he just felt the heat pool in his cheeks as a voice with soft lips pressed close to his ear, “If anyone would be murdering, it would be me, no? Only if I had to.”

“ _ Zevran _ ,” he all but gasped, his whole body shuddering, toes curling as he fought every primal urge in his body. 

“He’s still bashful,” Zevran mused, but did not move from where he clung to Alistair. 

Alistair attempted to turn his head to look at him. Zevran wore the black crow mask that he had been seeing all night. Damn him. He knew it! It was made of the same distressed plaster as Michai’s, but with silver cracks instead. Feathers lined the edges in an almost peacock-like display of beauty. A beak would be peaking out over Zevran’s face, but he had pushed it up to whisper into the king’s ear. 

Michai smiled and sauntered forward, hand reaching out to pluck fingers around the fabric of Alistair’s costume dragging him across the balcony until Michai rested comfortably on the rail again. They were close and Alistair could feel both the warm breath of Zevran and Michai now. His heart thrummed irregularly. His eyes were drawn briefly to Michai’s hips which jutted out toward him. They snapped up quickly. 

“We got your letter,” Michai said. 

Alistair huffed, trying to wiggle Zevran off his back. The elf didn’t budge. He sighed after a minute, “You could have warned me.” 

“Now where is the fun in that,  _ amor _ ?” asked Zevran. Alistair felt his heart stop.  _ Amor _ was an Antivan word, one that he had only ever called Michai. Said elf was sporting a mischievous grin, his fingers still holding Alistair’s clothes firmly to keep him from moving. 

Something inside Alistair sank, dark and inky into a void. This was not a dream. As much as it felt like he had fallen asleep at the banquet table, he knew it wasn’t the case. Zevran’s weight on his back was proof enough for that. What were they trying to do? Apologies didn’t involve bodies pressed flush against each other, heat pooling to all the areas Alistair didn’t want them to right now. He sighed, voiced bitter. 

“You’re punishing me for it still, aren’t you.” The words could have been a question, but they were not. Certainty were threaded through them. Michai schemed and he so rarely let things go.

But he didn’t seem phased by Alistair’s shift in mood, simply replying, “Only if you ask.” Michai winked and the hair in the back of Alistair’s neck stood on end. His jaw clenched in order to keep a hitched breath inside. 

“What--” 

“He’s saying he forgives you, Alistair. And that he feels sorry,” explained Zevran, slight fond frustration edging in his tone. Lithe fingers grabbed Alistair’s chin and moved them to look the elf in the eyes. The soft skin of Zevran’s thumb pressed to Alistair’s lips, dragging along the bottom one. Zevran smirked, “In his own very Michai way.” 

Michai’s eyes flitted away from Alistair’s. A brash decision, a scheme to further break broken trust, had changed the two of their lives forever. Sometimes, though, things could be built back up far more beautiful than they were before. Silver eyes were covered at this angle first by mask and then by thick dark lashes despite the fact that Alistair wanted to see them. There would be a time for more apologies, ones that the elf in front of him would struggle to say. He watched Michai’s chest rise and fall with a long, steady breath. 

“And  _ he’s _ saying we’re willing to give this a try,” he finally added, “In his own very Zevran way.” Alistair felt his heart jump straight into his throat. Michai’s own fingers were working their way up his chest, slowly, nails almost tickling him through the fabric of his clothes. 

Alistair blubbered for a bit. He didn’t cry, but he scrambled for words, repeating and circling back in a confused mile high talk. Michai’s lips turned upward, eyes half-lidded with affection that sparkled back at Alistair. That look alone knocked the breath out of him. To see Michai’s eyes staring at him as Alistair had wanted him to for so many years. At night, those bitter eyes stalked his dreams. 

“...But what about..” he whispered, distracted as Michai wrapped his arms around Alistair’s neck. 

“Both of us,” Michai explained as he pulled himself up to meet Alistair’s face, “If you want us.” 

A hard swallow passed through Alistair’s throat. Both of them? Maybe he was dreaming. Each moment the pressure of the two of them started to feel less and less real. Clouds were going to carry him away any minute. But each moment they didn’t, it sank in that Alistair might just be lucky. 

And all he had had to do was send a letter. 

“People can do that?” he asked, almost uncertain, as if this last sentence would break the dream. 

Instead, Zevran laughed, “Oh, yes,  _ amor,  _ people can do this. And we’d like to give you a little taste before you decide, no?” 

Then, before Alistair could reply, he felt soft lips on his. Michai’s hands had caught his face and he was pressing deeply into him as if they would melt into each other. Each press of soft supple skin sent goosebumps running along Alistair’s skin. There was a simplicity to it, as if they were back in time. As if Alistair had just handed Michai a rose…

He hoped no one would find them. Anora was certainly better at keeping things like this a secret it seemed. 

Michai finally gave Alistair room to breathe, his cheeks flushed and lips plumped, glistening slightly. Alistair’s breath hitched. He had done that to Michai, he realized. Though, he wouldn’t have time to stare, much less fully take in that thought. Before he could think, Zevran used those firm, slender fingers to tilt Alistair’s head and capture his lips. Where Michai had been soft, letting Alistair know without words that this was wanted, that Alistair was forgiven, Zevran seemed to be in charge of letting Alistar know he was desired. Teeth tugged and pulled on his lips as Zevran’s tongue pushed its way to caress the insides of his mouth. From behind him, Zevran’s legs tightened around him. When he pulled away, Alistair let out a little whine. 

Michai chuckled, “You’d be okay with trying then? …This, I mean?” 

Was he? Growing up in the chantry, Alistair had long been told things were simply wrong. Michai had spent many months explaining that maybe the Chantry could be wrong, if the rest of the world wanted it to be right. Alistair was never sure he agreed with that sentiment, but were he to argue, it would become the age old debate. Instead, he needed to rebuild that trust with Michai-- a thing he wanted more than any gold Ferelden could give him or freedom life in the Wardens could provide him. That began with an olive branch and a little bit of trust. This could be  _ good _ .

Breathing seemed to be escaping Alistair, which meant talking was out of the question. All he could manage to do was nod his head. The balcony looked as if it was spinning. His only anchors were Michai’s eyes and the feeling of Zevran’s body pressed against his. What a charmed moment… So surreal that he was convinced that this had to be a dream. As Michai leaned up to kiss him once more, Alistair hoped that if it was, he would never wake up. 


End file.
